Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore;
Not so white is the new milk that flows o’er the pail,
Or the snow that is show’r’d from the boughs of the vale.
As the cloud’s yellow wreath on the mountain’s high brow,
The locks of my fair one redundantly flow;
Her cheeks have the tint that the roses display.
When they glitter with dew on the morning of May.
As the planet of Venus that gleams o’er the grove,
Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love;
Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays,